


The long slide from kingdom to kingdom through the wilderness

by cm (mumblemutter)



Series: Every Story has its Chapter in the Desert [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same<br/>                                        running from something larger than yourself story</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The long slide from kingdom to kingdom through the wilderness

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [От королевства к королевству сквозь пустыню](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537898) by [Riddle_TM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riddle_TM/pseuds/Riddle_TM)



Years later, Charles Xavier will ask, Do you believe in fate, Erik?

I believe, you say, and move a chess piece, that you make your own future. That it doesn't matter what happened to you in the past, your choices were always yours.

Do you still believe you made the right ones?

Well, I'm in here and you're out there.

You move another piece. Checkmate.

 

 

The day you leave Düsseldorf for good, with a passport that reads _Eric Shaw_ -

Lehnsherr, you say, and you snarl.

Oh don't be such a spoilsport, Erik. Emma turns her million-dollar smile onto you and shakes her head. We're a family, all of us. Names just solidify that.

And why do you get to keep your own?

Because I'm his mistress of course.

You think it's just for show at first, but she touches him on the face when he comes into the room, and a) when did that happen and b) you don't know how you're supposed to feel about it.

Emma says, You can feel however which way you want, dollface. But you're still leaving the country as Eric Shaw.

Oh, is he upset about that. I told you he would be. Shaw wags a finger in front of your face. It's important that we be seen as a family. We can't have people asking questions, can we?

You have a telepath, you point out, quite reasonably.

Emma examines her fingernails. Who has better things to do. Honestly Erik, must you make everything so difficult.

Go to hell, the both of you.

You're Eric Shaw, American son of businessman Sebastian Shaw, travelling with his beautiful mistress that's half his age and barely older than his glowering, sulking son.

Las Vegas is the most vulgar place that you have ever been in. Emma loves it; you, not so much.

The hotel room is beautiful though, and the first night, you think Shaw will sleep with Emma instead, but at two a.m. you're unlocking the door for him without moving from your bed.

Rude, he chastises, and you ignore him to walk to the floor to ceiling window, watch the city laid out like you could grab ahold of it with your bare hands and squeeze, and it would all crumble to dust around you.

Shaw grabs your chin and gently turns your head, waits patiently until you slide to your knees.

All this will burn soon enough, he says, pressing his hands against the glass for support.

You'd agree with him except your mouth is full of cock and all you can really think about is the sound of blood rushing through your ears and whether Emma is awake and spying in.

Fuck off, Emma, you project, just in case. Her answering laughter is enough for you to involuntarily bite down, a little too hard.

Careful, Shaw says, his fingers settling onto the back of your head. An accident would be unfortunate now.

You want to laugh at that, but instead you just look up at him, and smile.

 

 

Emma likes to ride you, fully dressed as she sits in your lap. Most of the time you're torn between pushing her away and wanting to arch up into her, but then you usually end up not being bothered. She'll lose interest eventually, after she riles you up enough.

Once, you tried shoving her off and found yourself stuck to the couch, unable to move. After she finally let you go you wrapped the metal leg of the dining room table around her neck until she choked and even her diamond form cracked. She only seemed amused by the whole incident though and two days later she was back in your lap as if nothing had happened.

I would fuck you, she says fondly, her arms loosely draped around your neck.

Oh, please. I can't imagine you enjoying sex. I would rather sleep with a piranha, I believe they have warmer body temperatures.

I probably enjoy it more than you do, Erik. She grinds her crotch into yours, and you groan. You slip your hand in between her spread thighs, slip her panties aside.

She gasps and shimmies, but it doesn't stop her from saying, I would fuck you, if I didn't think all you would do afterwards was cry like a wounded animal. That's just not very fun at all.

You lift her up and slam her down onto the couch in one smooth motion, pinning her underneath you. That's it, Erik. Show me what a man you are. She arches her back into yours and doesn't shift, remains pale and delicate and not vulnerable at all.

You unzip your pants and jam the head of your cock against her cunt, but she only squirms and giggles.

Tell me to stop, you say. Tell me you want me to stop. Beg me.

No, she says. I won't even make you stop, although I could. You let her go, in the end.

She sits up and rubs her wrists; you hadn't even noticed you were gripping them that hard.

When she kisses you it's soft, and chaste, and you flinch away.

We're going to bring it all down, she whispers in your ears. For different reasons, but it will be beautiful. All things end.

 

 

When you dream it's of nuclear war, of Fat Man and Little Boy and a mushroom cloud rising up into forever.

When you dream it's of mutant kind, lording above everyone.

When you dream it's of your mother telling you, _All is good_ , and the way her hands were always so soft on your head and her kisses tasted like rain, like ash, like death.

When you dream, you dream of Shaw, his hand over your mouth and telling you, in calm, lucid tones: move the coin, Erik. All you have to do is move the coin.

 

 

Shaw tells you, in the early days, I didn't kill your mother, Erik. Humanity did.

I killed her, you respond, close to tears because you were capable of crying then, and in fact that's just about all you did. I killed her, you say, and when you press your face into his chest he hugs you back, his arms warm and safe.

It wasn't you. She was a Jew, and she would have died anyway, if you hadn't failed and I hadn't been forced to pull the trigger. Not that day perhaps, but soon. Later, perhaps, but eventually. I spared her a painful, purposeless death.

He runs his fingers through your hair, and you sniffle and you can't bring yourself to disagree.

 

 

Shaw is obsessed with those blood samples Emma's father shipped from Japan. He makes you sit down with him and draws vial after vial of your blood until your arms are bruised, and even as you rapidly lose patience he ignores you to peer into a microscope.

Can I leave now, you snap, after the third day, all the metal in the laboratory rattling threateningly.

Shaw looks around at the shaking equipment and trays and seems more amused than anything else. Come here Erik, he says. I want to show you something.

You stare into the microscope as instructed but all you see is squiggles and blood red lines. Nothing that makes the least bit of sense.

It's DNA, Shaw says, like a proud father. Remember when I was telling you all about how genes are the future.

No, you say. Mostly I remember you strapping me down and drilling holes into my head until I fell unconscious from the pain. That I remember quite lucidly. Thank you for asking.

You've really developed a mouth on you as you've aged, my boy. Shaw sighs and looks entirely put upon.

You bare your teeth. I do have my charms though.

Well if you didn't you wouldn't be here, would you.

So tell me what I'm looking at again.

It's the gene that controls mutations, Shaw tells you. All of these blood samples are from people like us. Accelerated by close proximity to the nuclear bombs.

I thought the bombs caused deformities, babies with two heads and no lungs. You possibly heard of that from Emma, who enjoys regaling you with horror stories from her father, the supplier of the now not so mysterious blood samples from so very far away.

Shaw waves his hand. In some of the population, yes. There are always casualties. But in others.

It's the first time you hear the words, children of the atom.

We are children of the atom, you and I, Shaw informs you. Together we are going to bring about a new, glorious age.

Shaw, you conclude, staring at him in that lab as he cheerfully talks about his plans for rendering the world dark with nuclear ash and fire, is quite insane.

But he has a point, and that point is: there's too many of them, and not enough of you.

 

 

Shaw forgets soon enough that he's supposed to be pretending to be a Nazi and you've forgotten that he's supposed to be that as well, for the most part. All barely disguised contempt when the SS came around. How are things going, Herr Doktor. You focus too much on that Jew.

Ah, but he is special. Erik, show them, if you would be so kind. So very marvelous, what he can do.

It all seems very far away and a long time ago, stuck here in this tiny flat in some Argentinian village with only the one bedroom and the mice that come out to squeak at night and refuse to die no matter how many traps you lay for them.

They're in a holding pattern, apparently, while Shaw puts things into motion and tries to plan a future for them that doesn't involve living in squalor and eating food out of a can.

They weren't supposed to lose the war that quickly, he says ruefully once. I hadn't bet on that. All my money's tied up elsewhere. I hadn't anticipated needing it so early.

Did you expect them to lose at all, you ask, curious.

Yes of course, Hitler was a madman, and madmen never win. Not that it matters. The world marches on, as will we. He claps you on the back. We are the future, not them.

At some point, Shaw forgets you're German as well and starts speaking to you in English all the time.

Speak German, you snap. I don't understand half of what you're saying.

Then I suggest you learn, and learn fast, Shaw says with finality, and sounds as if he will never allow another German word to cross his lips again, simply out of spite.

You roll your eyes at him, and he has the nerve to laugh when you say, I don't need to learn English, not when I can do this. Every utensil in the kitchen flies out of its drawer, forms an attack formation in his direction.

This will only get you so far, he says. You have to learn how the world works, and you have to adapt to it. This is how I survived so long, and it's what I'll pass down to you. Consider it a gift. Like most things with Shaw, his method of instruction involves backing you up against the wall until you have no choice.

You still steadfastly refuse, until he sighs. It's good that you learn, Erik. French, Spanish. Especially English. I can't very well be speaking German to you when we get to America, can I. And this. His fingers grip your arm. Won't get you anything but revulsion and perhaps pity if you're fortunate.

America, you say, because it's the first you've heard of it. Are we going there now, then? When will that happen? Will we go to New York?

Shaw laughs, and you snap your mouth shut, ashamed of your bright and sudden enthusiasm. In good time, my dear Erik. In good time. For now, study hard, get rid of that accent. It gives you away, and you never want to be given away.

 

 

You're dreaming when Shaw wakes you up in the middle of the night, his hand clamped around your mouth to keep you silent. We have to go now, they're coming. Tell me you understand and I will release you. You nod your head, and gulp in deep breaths when he pulls away his palm.

Who's coming, you ask. And: We can fight them. Why must we run.

Because there's a time to fight and there's a time to move on and not make a scene. You scowl at him and pull away, listen to the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. So much metal. All the buckles and the zippers and the heavy, alluring oily slide of the guns in their hands. Only the two of them, then. To take on an army consisting of you and Shaw. They must not know.

Barricade the door, that is all I ask of you. Erik. His fingers in your hair, he snaps your head back. Do as I say.

You barricade the door, and you run.

To Austria, in the back of truck used to transport pigs. You're used to filth and the smell doesn't bother you at all, but still you glare at Shaw, Herr _Schmidt_ , the entire long, miserable ride there.

Is this the better life you promised me, then, you snarl. I was promised great things. Because I was so special.

All in good time, Shaw says, unimpressed by your rage as usual, and in that truck, dressed in rags and with pig shit stuck to your boots, cold and hungry and Shaw as untouchable as he's always been, you think you've never hated him more.

You think you could take the hunting knife hidden under the bench and slit his throat when he's distracted.

You think you could use the coin, always safely tucked away on your body, and drill it slowly through his brain while he sleeps.

In the end though, you only say, and your voice sounds pathetic even to your own ears, Are we there yet? I'm tired.

 

 

A tiny hotel room that's transitory, Shaw has contacts that you're supposed to be waiting for, but they're unreachable for some reason and he's bored, and when he gets bored he gets creative and when he gets creative he expects more from you, forgets that you're old enough to not to be his dancing monkey anymore.

Instead he says, make that car crash into the other one, Erik. Or, I will shoot you and you will stop the bullet. As if these aren't things you can do with your eyes closed, things you can do while putting as much effort in as you usually do with breathing. Yes, but what if you shoot at me, Erik.

What do you mean?

Go ahead, do it. Don't tell me I've wasted all my hours teaching you how to use a gun.

I have perfect aim, you protest.

It's not just about the aim, it's about the willingness to kill. That's an entirely different matter altogether. You've only killed by accident previously. That's not enough. He puts the gun in your hand and wraps your fingers around the barrel. Where do you want me to stand? Against the wall, shall I?

He walks backwards slowly and you raise the gun with hands that don't tremble at all, but when your finger squeezes the trigger you shut your eyes, follow the trajectory of the bullets.

You squeeze again and again and again, in quick succession, unable to stop, aim for the head and the heart.

The bullets halt.

You open your eyes.

Now you see what I mean, Shaw says, when I tell you that people like us are the future. You're not the only one that's special.

 

 

The school days are long, and when you reach home you mostly grab a quick dinner and fall into bed, exhausted. You rarely wake till dawn, so when the boot kicks your feet apart you're a little too slow in reacting, a little too slow in arching the knife in the direction of the boot's occupant.

That's disappointing, Erik. You must always be prepared.

You yawn, which is your first mistake. Shaw smiles and leans closer, his fingers ghosting over the side of your cheek.

You move away, which is your second mistake. What, you say.

You've grown quite a fair bit, haven't you. Far cry from the skinny boy I once knew who would rather hide behind his mother's skirt.

I believe they call it puberty, you reply, biting back your _fuck you._ Shaw knows how you hates any mention of your mother. Besides, it's not as if you had much opportunity to hide behind your her skirt in front of Shaw.

What do you want, you ask once more. You wish desperately to go back to sleep, but Shaw keeps staring at you, his eyes hard and bright. Eventually he just pats you on the head, tells you you're a good boy. A good son.

The house is far bigger than any they've been in so far, and all the neighbors wave unguardedly at the nice gentleman who moves in with his young son. Where's your wife, their next door neighbor asks when she brings over a welcome basket of fruit. My wife unfortunately passed, Shaw says with a hint of sadness in his eyes, and she holds her hand up to her heart in horror. My Erik is all I have left.

Eric, she tells him, you poor boy. Well if you need anything, I'm right next door. You smile at her, and her own smile falters briefly, before she recovers and exits hastily. I tried, you tell Shaw, and shrug.

You understand though, by now. An education is important, and you didn't protest when you were enrolled in an expensive school nearby. Instead you study hard, and you learn how to hide, and the more you outwardly change the more Shaw beams at you, tells you how proud you're making him.

All that sacrifice was worth it, Erik, he says, squeezing your hand. Look at how far along you've come.

Over dinner one day with their friendly neighbor, at Shaw's invitation, she says conversationally, Hitler went too far, obviously, but it can it be argued that some folks did need to be taught a lesson in humility.

When she dies from an unfortunate gardening accident, Shaw tsks at you as you have your head bent over a schoolbook. Pettiness, he says, is not productive. We're better than that.

You're better than that, you mutter. I'm just getting started.

Shaw looks thoughtful. Are you a Jew or a mutant first?

I am not a victim, you say.

Shaw nods his head, seems satisfied.

You return to your books.

 

 

The man is as red as a fire-engine, eyes a pale blue and hair so black it doesn't seem real. Azazel can teleport, and is their newest recruit apparently, because that's part of the plan now, recruitment. You circle around each other for a while, or rather you circle around Azazel, but it's clear soon enough that he has no interest in asserting his presence in a way that will challenge your position. You're too busy with the construction of the club to have time to play petty politics anyway, and it's not as if his power is any match to yours.

Sebastian laughs, because Emma's a cunt and tells him everything. I do believe you're somewhat jealous, he says, his fingers trailing a blunt line across your cheekbone.

I am hardly that, you sigh. It's not as if he can do much besides act as an extremely efficient means of transportation and drop people from extremely high altitudes. He says he's going to bring someone else in, a man named Janos. Can harness the power of the wind, apparently. He will most likely be useful as well.

Everything's shaping up perfectly, then, Sebastian says. He pours two glasses of scotch and hands one to you. Here's to the future, and the children of the atom.

 

 

Shaw likes to fuck you face to face. Likes to spread your legs apart and kneel between them, his eyes never closing as he watches you twist and turn.

The first time it hurts, too much and then not enough, as he sinks in to the hilt and _something_ breaks and you gasp, open mouthed and needy as his hand wraps around your cock, and you hadn't thought about any of this before, had only been vaguely aware that people fucked and they enjoyed it and oh, of course they do, if it feels like this. "Erik," Shaw says urgently, as you arch your head back and twist the sheets with your fists, as the metal bedframe starts to warp. "Erik," Shaw says again, and this time he says it with only the hint of interest, which means you snap to attention immediately, despite how badly you just want to close your eyes and give in to this slippery slide of pleasure. Two things, he says. First, I enjoy it more when you're looking at me. Second, do try not to destroy the bed, we might be here a while.

You manage the first for about two minutes before he slams into you one more time and you have to turn your head into the pillow to bite it, but at least you keep the bedframe intact. For the most part.

 

 

Emma is a tiny slip of a girl who stands in the living room and looks around as if she's too expensive to even be standing here. Which, considering the cut of her white coat, she probably is. Emma, Shaw beams, and they air kiss. How is your father?

He sends his love. He won't be able to leave Tokyo for a while yet, but he reassures me that the blood samples you requested are on their way as we speak.

Fantastic. He rubs his hands together as Emma turns towards you as if she's only just noticing you. Which is rubbish, she'd noticed you the second she walked in, but you've met enough women like her by now to be aware of just how part of her nature this air of casual dismissal is.

Oh, where are my manners, Shaw says. Emma, this is Erik. Erik Lehnsherr. Erik, meet Emma Frost.

Lehnsherr. German, yes. How delightful. She smiles at him. One of Hitler's little soldiers escaped the Allied advance, did we?

Erik pushes the sleeve of his sweater up, shows her his arm. She trails her fingers across his skin and says, Jew, Gypsy, or homosexual, darling? Or something else entirely. The Nazis were always so very arbitrary.

A lot of nerve, this Emma Frost. She can barely be more than your own age, and yet here she is, almost entirely fearless. Possibly all Americans are like that, then. Certainly Shaw is. But Shaw's from an entirely different planet, almost.

Come now, Emma, Shaw frowns at her. Leave the poor boy alone. Besides, does he look like a gypsy to you.

She can say whatever she likes, you inform Shaw, standing up from your seat so you can tower over her.

Emma continues to look unimpressed. She slides her hands back into her coat pockets and tilts her head. "Poor baby. I'll get you a menorah this Hanukkah, how about that."

Emma, you find out later, enjoys asking uncomfortable questions that she already knows the answer to. A telepath, Shaw tells him gleefully. The power to control the mind, how splendid is that.

Will she be staying with us, then.

For a while at least. Her father seems to have quite forgotten her existence. She will be useful.

You nod your head, and think about all the things that you wish you'd forgotten, and all the things that you would like to forget and cannot. Can you do that, you ask casually, when she strolls into the house late at night. Take away someone's memories, just like that.

Would you like me to remove all the bad stuff, honey, she says. The camp, perhaps. And that's when you know she's been rooting around in your head, but you don't particularly care.

I was thinking, you tell her carefully, that perhaps you could take away the ones that came before.

 

 

Why are we building a submarine, you ask, head bent over the blueprints. The horizon is lovely this time of the year on the edge of the Indian Ocean. Emma is suntanning and Janos has decided to walk around and give everyone cigars for no good reason whatsoever.

We are building a submarine, dear Erik, because we can.

And because, Janos says, handing you a cigar, in the advent of nuclear war. It's the first time you've heard him speak in three months. We might need a place far enough from the fallout to hide.

It's a reasonable enough answer, but all you can think about is the sheer amount of metal it will take to build the ship, and how you will be probably be encased in it for months. Metal already sings, beautiful and sleek and delicate, and now this.

Of course, Sebastian says, if we have to rely on human architects and constructors it might take a while longer.

Scratch that, you tell him. It'll be better than this. I'll make it impenetrable. Nothing will be able to stop us now.

 

 

Years later, when you're imprisoned in a plastic bubble because they imagine it will keep them safe, Charles Xavier will ask, and you barely know him, this man, except that he killed Sebastian and seems to have dedicated his entire life to opposing you, Do you believe in fate, Erik.

You've overstayed your welcome, you say. Please, do not visit again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary taken from "[Driving, Not Washing](http://greatpoets.livejournal.com/3145258.html)" by Richard Siken. Written for [this prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/3278.html?thread=3993806).


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